


I could Never define all that You are to Me

by kidcarma



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Despair Era (Dangan Ronpa), Dom/sub, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Master/Servant, No Sexual Content, Relationship Study, Self-Esteem Issues, discussions of trust, obligatory hozier lyric title so i can get a bingo
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-21
Updated: 2020-06-21
Packaged: 2021-03-04 07:27:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24846049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kidcarma/pseuds/kidcarma
Summary: Komaeda struggles to make the bed.
Relationships: Kamukura Izuru/Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 5
Kudos: 168





	I could Never define all that You are to Me

**Author's Note:**

> sometimes u just wanna do a study on bdsm relationships. but not the sex part. thats all.

Komaeda huffs, a quiet rush of air that alerts Kamukura to his growing agitation. Kamukura doesn’t move of course, not yet anyway, nothing besides lifting his gaze up and away from his book, in order to keep an eye on Komaeda. Komaeda, who grits his teeth, and has realized halfway through unfolding the sheet for the first time since swapping his own hand for _hers_ , that simple tasks such as making the bed don’t come to him so easily anymore. 

That can’t be a deterrent, though. He can’t admit to himself that a choice made to reach the rush of despair has rendered him even more useless to Kamukura than he was before. That his obsession with the war waged between hope and despair has caused him to reconsider everything he can do for the man he loves. 

Shaking his head, Komaeda blinks, a tuft of hair falling into his face and the only thing he can do is attempt to blow it out of the way. Because one hand is preoccupied and the other is useless, but still trying to anchor one corner of the sheet to his chest with all of its dead weight under the mitten.   
He settles for setting the half open stretch of fabric on the already stripped bed, unfolding it the rest of the way with the one functional appendage he’s got. Tries to tuck the corners underneath the mattress as he works his way around it, counterclockwise, unaware of Kamukura’s gaze still burning into him from behind. 

It doesn’t work, of course. One corner tucks under, then another, then another and the elastic tension pulls up the first two, and he has to start all over again. Repeats this process twice, before tears start to prick at his eyes, a burning sensation threatening to choke him and consume him whole. 

He can’t- he can’t do _anything_. Not even something as simple as this. A task so idle, yet it’s something he can’t manage, in the state he’s put himself in. And perhaps, that might be the worst part. He’s done this to himself.

The crushing, overwhelming taste of despair is familiar by now. Komaeda swallows thickly, trying to wash it away, because it's so hard to imagine any kind of worthwhile hope that would bloom from this, taking in a shuddering breath and looking to the ground. If he has to stare at the bed for a second longer, it’s going to knock him over and he doesn’t think that he’ll be able to get back up again. 

Can’t make the bed. Can’t braid Kamukura’s hair. Can’t wash his own hair. Can’t hold a mop properly, can’t change pillowcases, can’t tie Kamukura’s tie or button his shirt up- all of the things Kamukura might ask of him, he can’t do most of them without struggle, anyway. Will never be able to do them again.

And for what? For _her_? 

Komaeda is doing his best to repress a sob when Kamukura finally jolts him out of his spiral.

“Komaeda.”

He whips his head up, spinning around, letting the sheet corner fall from his hand where he had been clutching at it so desperately, it has surely wrinkled by now.

“Yes?” he asks brightly, the way he moves to hastily scrub his tears away betrays the wide grin on his face.

“Come here.”

The order is simple, familiar- one he can manage. Komaeda does so eagerly, following the beckoning gesture and sitting himself obediently on the floor by Kamukura’s feet. This place is safe. Kamukura makes him feel safe. 

And when Kamukura threads his hand through Komaeda’s hair, petting gently, everything else falls away. How can there be room in his mind for distress, self doubt, guilt, when he’s dedicating every fiber in his being to memorizing the feeling of such a comfort, when he’s unwaveringly focused on anything and everything Kamukura will give him? There’s nothing else. Only this. Only devotion, and trust- trust that Kamukura will hold him together when he starts falling apart at the seams.

How long it lasts, Komaeda can’t say, he wishes he could drag it out for hours. But soon, he lets out a sigh, slumping against Kamukura’s leg. A simple action draining all of the frustrations out of him. Kamukura finally pulls his hand away.

“Thank you,” Komaeda murmurs, face pressed against the fabric of Kamukura’s pants, but his eyes are turned upward. 

There’s a moment of pause. Not for Kamukura’s sake, but his own. A few beats of respite before the hand that had been petting through his hair reaches downward, gripping the last few links of his chain. Kamukura uncrosses his legs, and moves to stand from his chair. 

When Komaeda makes the same move to lift himself from the floor, Kamukura presses gently on his shoulder. A wordless order to stay. To kneel. To crawl. 

It’s better to focus on the carpet burn scathing his palm, Komaeda figures, and how he has to distribute his weight carefully as he tracks across the floor, cautious not to put too much strain on a limb he can’t feel. Better to focus on that than all the worries that are threatening to creep back in. This is his place. Below Kamukura. And he likes it that way. Even if that means the embarrassment, the shame of being dragged across the room. He deserves this. 

When they stop at the bed, Komaeda shifts to sit, kneeling at Kamukura’s feet, not daring to open his mouth as he watches.  
Kamukura is so fluid as he moves, so efficient, so effortless. Komaeda’s chain still held in his left hand by only pinky and ring finger, he uses his three free digits and his entirely free right hand as he picks up the slack where Komaeda left off, tucking the sheet under all four corners of the bed, spreading the duvet and throw blankets on top, sliding the pillows back into their cases. Even if it comes so easily to him, Komaeda knows the task must be boring. Everything is boring for Kamukura but this must be dreadfully so. If only the hotel housekeeping staff hadn’t been killed off. 

If only Komaeda had two functional hands. 

His eyes start to burn again, the display only a reminder of his uselessness, when Kamukura gives a short tug on his lead. It refocuses him. Grounds him. 

“I’m sorry,” Komaeda’s voice cracks. He knows it wasn’t a prompt for an apology, but he feels the need to give it anyway. He has infinite apologies to give. 

“What for?”

“I can’t do anything. I’m useless to you.” 

“No.”

“Yes-” Komaeda argues and immediately he bites down on his tongue, tasting the sharp tang of blood. He can’t help his own insolence. “I can’t… I can’t make the bed. I can’t button up your shirt. I can hardly dress _myself_ anymore. What kind of-” The shaky breath he tries to take in cuts off his words momentarily, and he coughs, sniffles, eyes cast shamefully to the floor. “What kind of servant is that? How am I supposed to serve you?”

“Komaeda, look at me.”

He does. It’s hard to see clearly through the way tears are warping his vision. But he still does. 

“Stand up.”

He stands. 

He doesn’t want to. It puts them on the same level. Like they’re equal. They’re not. But he stands.

“Take off my jacket,” Kamukura says as he relinquishes his grip on Komaeda’s chain. 

That much Komaeda can do, at least. He grips the fabric, tugs it back, slides his hand along the plane of Kamukura’s arm to help it off until it’s hanging on only from one side, repeats the process, and now he’s clutching Kamukura’s suit jacket to his chest, breaths coming in short and uneven, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth but not so hard that he’ll bleed- he knows Kamukura would scold him for that. 

“Go hang it over the arm of my chair, and then come back.”

He does. He sees the order for what it is, too. Something to distract his mind. Something to refocus him. Because he's helpless to asserting control, even over his own head.

“Komaeda, you are not useless to me.”

“But all I did was-”

Kamukura holds up a hand.

“It would be foolish and disappointing if I expected you to complete tasks that I know you aren’t capable of. I will not ask anything unreasonable of you and you need to _trust_ in me, in my judgement, and in my orders.”

“I do,” Komaeda says desperately. “I trust you. With my life.”

“If you trust me,” Kamukura tilts his head. “You must trust yourself. If you trust that my orders are doable, then that means you must also trust in your own ability to complete them. One trust cannot exist without the other.”

“But-”

Kamukura lifts an eyebrow. 

“But what does it matter?” Komaeda finishes his thought and he wishes Kamukura would hit him for it. Smack him. Send him back down to the floor. But apparently, for him, Kamukura’s patience hasn’t reached its limit and Komaeda trembles as he continues, knowing he doesn’t deserve it. “Taking off your jacket. Standing up. Following you around. You’re _everything_ and I’m _nothing_. How am I supposed to help your hope shine with such meaningless tasks?” 

Tilting his head, Kamukura lets the words shift around, settling into his skull before he even considers opening his mouth. He lets out a low hum. Barely audible, but still there, so it must mean something but Komaeda doesn’t have the capacity to guess what it is right now. 

“Komaeda, you are… no less capable of furthering my hope now than you were before. Two hands, or one hand, the difference is negligible.” 

“Ha. Haha-“ Komaeda buckles. “Hahahahahahahahahah _ahahahahahahaha_ -“ He inhales. “You’re right, Kamukura. As always. I don’t need two hands to die a stepping stone. In fact, I can put up less of a fight this way when you finally decide to kill me. Not that I would fight you, at all, but-“ 

“Stop.”

Komaeda’s mouth snaps shut. But the order doesn’t sway the way the corners of his lips quirk up into a smile, one without teeth but still hysterical nonetheless. Chuckles like hiccups, sudden and choppy, jerking his shoulders with every sound repressed and muffled in the back of his throat.   
How hadn’t he seen it? He’d been so distracted, so blinded by his selfish need to complete mundane tasks that he’d forgotten what it really means to serve. To give his entire _life_ to Kamukura. Even if his life is worth less than nothing. Even if Kamukura doesn’t want to take it. All he has to give is himself. That’s all he has. 


End file.
